


all night long (here with the flies)

by Byacolate, mywordsflyup



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Concept Art Solas, Concept Solas - Freeform, F/M, Halamshiral, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyfidelity, Protectiveness, Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:16:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywordsflyup/pseuds/mywordsflyup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To be caught half naked in the garden of the Winter Palace while one's Commander and apostate companion work furiously to scrub bloodstains from one's uniform in a fountain could fuel the inner machinations of the Game for years. </p><p>Best not to be caught, then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all night long (here with the flies)

“I can’t dance.”

 

The night is young, the food is theatrical, the company is unbearable, but Solas is all good humor as he leans against table beside him. Perhaps the collar of his uniform does not strangle and chafe in turn as Cullen’s does.

 

“You won’t dance.” Solas slips a glass into Cullen’s hand, his smile absurdly sanguine for a man forced into the role of the Inquisitor’s manservant from the evening’s beginning. “The difference is fairly distinct.”

 

Cullen eyes him blandly over the rim of his glass before he takes a generous swallow. He cringes - the wine is too sweet by far. Solas favors wines like this, and Cullen would be happy enough to return the glass to him to finish, but he fears the scandal Josephine would suffer for it. “It is,” he finally agrees, “and still I stand by my assertion.”

 

Despite Cullen’s careful consideration toward Orlesian politics, Solas still lifts the glass from his fingers and sips. The sharp but flowery scent of it remains in the air, and Cullen knows how sweet Solas’ tongue will taste once he’s finished the glass. Solas’ grin turns sly around the rim. “I must protest,” he says, playful. “Perhaps you mean to say that you dance poorly. Or that you do not know the formal steps. But that does not mean you cannot dance - only that you aren’t very good.”

 

Cullen wants to tell him he looks ridiculous in that hat, but he hasn’t had enough drinks to be so openly petty. Yet.

 

“Did you just come to press your syrupy wine upon me and tease, or is there something I can help you with?”

 

There is laughter, soft and knowing, that is not entirely muffled by the glass cupped within Solas’ long fingers. “You looked harried, Commander,” he says, clearly amused by Cullen’s expression at the use of his title. “I only thought to offer my company as a reprieve. But if you would prefer I come to you with only business under the watchful gaze of the Orlesian court -”

 

“You know that isn’t what I meant,” Cullen mutters, allowing himself to take a small step closer. He rubs the side of his neck and tries not to yank at his collar. “I… apologize if I’m short with you, or unkind. It isn’t…”

 

Solas’ expression gentles, and Cullen doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse. “I understand,” he says, in that way of his that makes Cullen think he just might. “I met Cole earlier.”

 

Cullen swallows a groan, if only just. “Do I want to know what he had to say?”

 

“Highly doubtful. I thought it best to join you regardless.” Solas finishes his drink and rests the glass on the table before he presses his fingers to Cullen’s back in the privacy of the dark. “And perhaps I was feeling restless myself.”

 

“She will need you soon enough,” Cullen tells him. Whether it is the power of the arcane or the magic that lies only in Solas’ touch that soothes Cullen so, he cannot say, but he feels calmer nonetheless. Solas’ thumb slowly rises and falls over the warm line of his spine.

 

“And I will come when called. But I know where I am needed most.”

 

If Cullen is honest with himself, he is grateful for the anchor of Solas’ presence, calming and iring in turns. He wards off the worst of the tittering nobility, and at his side Cullen feels almost at ease.

 

“I have been thoughtless this evening.”

 

Solas’ eyes wander over the festivities, and he says nothing, but Cullen knows that he is listening.

 

“It was unintentional, but that doesn’t excuse what I have said.”

 

“You aren’t talking about me.”

 

Cullen studies the tassels of Solas’ ludicrous hat. “No, I’m not.”

 

“You may be surprised to hear,” Solas offers lightly, “that there is a rather simple solution to your problem.”

 

He wants nothing more than to protest. In theory, perhaps an apology would suffice: A gift to prove how contrite, how sincere the remorse he feels for his callous rejection. Flowers. Nevarran whiskey. A new hart for the stables. All of this, as though forgiveness could be so easily bought. As though he could atone for the sudden, surprised, _“Oh,”_ pulled from her chest at his careless rebuff - the way she turned, could not meet his eyes as they parted.

 

“I tried to explain my misstep,” he tells Solas, “but it cannot be enough.”

 

Solas pulls his hand away to straighten his own impeccable uniform, though he does leave Cullen with a quick touch to the palm of his hand. “An explanation is as good a start as any, _emma lath_ ,” he says, and they both turn when the doors to the ballroom open to reveal their Inquisitor in all her fury. “But it isn’t quite what I had in mind.”

 

☙❧

 

She drops in on them, quite literally. Because fancy Orlesian lattices are really not meant for climbing. Even if the climbing is done by a lightweight like Lavellan.

 

A crack, a yelp and she nearly lands on top of two men who were standing in the shadows of an alcove, well hidden from curious onlookers. She is not surprised. She has seen enough in the little crooks and secret passages of this palace tonight to make even The Iron Bull blush. Orlesians are a kinky bunch if they think nobody's watching.

 

Cursing, she scrambles to her feet. “I am so sorry, I didn't mea–”

 

She stops herself as soon as she recognizes them. Blond curls, dark dreads. That ridiculous hat. Cullen's mouth thoroughly kissed and Solas' arms snug around his waist.

 

She straightens up, trying her hardest not to burst out laughing right there and then. “So, what do we have here? I'm off fighting the bad guys and you two are having fun in the gardens? How is that fair?”

 

Cullen turns an even darker shade of red. “That's not...” he starts, and sighs, one hand already nervously rubbing the back of his neck. He's startled, but there is something else in his eyes as he searches her face. As if being caught here is not entirely the reason for his embarrassment.

 

“He was upset,” Solas chimes in. “The guests were handing me empty glasses and a rather loud pair of nobles slandered you. At least twice.”

 

She snorts. “Who hasn't called me knife-ear tonight?” By now, she's so used to the insults and the whispers behind her back, they barely register.

 

“I thought it best to keep our Commander otherwise occupied before he decided to end the night early by assaulting the Empress’ guests.”

 

“Very wise. And so selfless.” She grins.

 

“It's not funny!” Usually Cullen is calm, controlled anger. He is more likely to walk away and work out his aggression in private than to start a fight. But this night has proven to be a test, even for him. “It's unbearable! The disrespect, this awful Game, the whole rotten court for that matter! How can you stand it?”

 

Solas' stance has shifted, just slightly, but Lavellan knows him well enough to recognize it. His hands around Cullen's waist are not longer stroking suggestively. Instead his thumbs are massaging tiny circles over his side and lower back – a gesture that is meant to calm.

 

“It means nothing in the grand scheme of things,” he says, his voice low and level. “Their petty games, their lies, the hunger for power. I have seen empires like this rise and fall a hundred times in the Fade.”

 

“The thought that this repeating over and over again does not make it better,” Cullen says wryly, but he leans into his touch.

 

Lavellan watches them, a strange, unfamiliar feeling coiled tightly in her belly. His protectiveness, his arguably justified anger makes her skin tingle. Nobody has ever done that for her, she realizes. She is the one who usually does the protecting. She didn't know it would feel so... pleasant.

 

Before they can say another word, she steps forward and using one hand on Solas' shoulder to pull herself up on the tip of her toes, she presses her lips on Cullen's. It's a quick kiss, unexpected and with enough force that he stumbles back a bit. He can't even react properly before she pulls back, teasingly swiping the tip of her tongue across his bottom lip as she goes – a touch that leaves him shivering.

 

“You're sweet, Cullen,” she says. “But I don't want you to get so upset on my behalf.” She lifts her hand to smooth back an errant curl that has fallen into his forehead. And there it is again, that look of embarrassment. Uncertainty, perhaps. For a short second, she wonders if he feels bad about refusing to dance with her after all. But it’s a silly thought. The sting of his rejection is not forgotten but pushed back into a corner of her mind. It was a bad idea, getting caught up in the moment like that. She cannot possibly blame him for it.

 

When she turns to Solas, he is more prepared, kissing her back with the same fervor. His hand finds its way to her lower back and pulls her between him and Cullen, gentle but determined. Laughing, she breaks away.

 

“As much as I would like to spend the rest of the evening with you two, I fear there are more walls to climb and Orlesians to stab and scandalous secrets to reveal.” She rests her hand on his chest and sighs theatrically. “Compared to this it's a complete and utter drag, I must admit.”

 

She feels Cullen behind her, for a moment completely content with being caught between her lovers' bodies. His hand on her hip and his hot breath brushing the tip of her ear already promising a lot more fun than hunting assassins around the Winter Palace could ever be. But alas...

 

“Not to utterly ruin the mood but do either of you know how to get bloodstains out of Orlesian finery? Preferably before the next dance?”

 

They both stiffen for a moment. Then Cullen grabs her by the shoulders and spins her around, worry plain on his face.

 

“Blood?” He sounds alarmed. “Were you hurt?”

 

She makes a disappointed sound and wriggles out of his grasp. “No, of course not,” she says, perhaps a little bit sharper than necessary. “It's not mine. But I still don't think the court would approve.” She steps out of the shadows into the light to show them the mess on the front of her uniform. The bloodstains stand out even against the deep red fabric. Solas looks like he is trying very hard not to laugh, while Cullen sighs.

 

“You need to wash it out with cold water.” His eyes search the yard. “There is a fountain over there. But...” He stops and clears his throat, a slight blush creeps up from underneath his collar. “You would have to take it off.”

 

She snorts. “I think we can manage that.” She winks at Solas. “Would you be so kind, _ma vhenan_?”

 

“Certainly.”

 

She feels the prickle of magic on her skin as he raises the barrier around them, shielding them from view. They make their way to the small fountain, almost hidden away in another alcove but still visible enough to everyone who would enter the garden through the main gate. Even with the barrier in place, she still feels a nervous giggle rising in her chest as she starts to unbutton her jacket. This is daring, even for them.

 

She hands Cullen the jacket and he immediately begins scrubbing furiously at the stains until the water within the fountain pool turns a pale reddish brown. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she hugs herself against the brisk night air against her exposed skin. When she feels Solas wrapping his arms around her from behind, she hums approvingly and leans back against his chest. The heat radiating from his body is enough to keep her warm.

 

“Do you have need of me?” he asks, just a whisper in her ear.

 

“Always,” she sighs although she knows that's not what he is talking about. His low chuckle resonates through her body.

 

“That is not what I meant, but good to know nonetheless.” He places a small kiss on the slope of her shoulder.

 

“Stay with Cullen for now,” she says. “It's less conspicuous when there’s just one elf scaling the walls of the palace.”

 

“Something tells me you're not the only elf running around where they are not supposed to be tonight.”

 

“You might be right about that.” She thinks of the whispering servants in the hallways. Blood on the marble floors.

 

Her thoughts are interrupted by the first bell ringing loudly from the ballroom. Cullen jumps, splashing cold water everywhere.

 

“ _Fenedhis_!” Lavellan curses and untangles herself from Solas. “I need to get back!”

 

“I got most of the blood out but the jacket is still wet,” Cullen say apologetically. “This might just get you into more trouble with those blighted nobles.”

 

“Let me see.” Solas takes the jacket from him, heat already springing from his fingers. “I have had need to do this with my own clothes more times than I can count.” He runs his hand up and down the garment, hovering just an inch over the damp fabric. Lavellan can see the heat coming from his fingers in languid waves.

 

“Just don't burn it,” she says, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. Cullen calmly puts his hands on her upper arms, partly to hold her still but also to rub warmth into them. Solas finishes just in time for the second bell. He helps her into the jacket and she buttons it with shaking fingers.

 

“Thank you!” she calls out and reaches up to cover his face with kisses. “You're the best!” She turns around to Cullen and he receives the same treatment. “As are you. My lifesavers!” She is halfway to the main door when she turns around for one last time. “Stay safe from self-indulgent shemlen, _ma vhenanen_! And don't have too much fun without me.” One last grin and she is gone, vanished through the heavy gate.

 

“Do you wish to return as well?” Solas asks, his hand already finding its way back to the small of Cullen's back.

 

“In a moment.” Cullen smiles and intertwines his fingers with Solas', pulling him deeper into the small alcove. “Why don't you keep that barrier up for a little while longer?”  

 

☙❧

 

He allows himself to spare a moment to watch the Iron Bull and Cole working to fetch a halla statuette from where it is balanced precariously on a beam in the servants’ quarters before ducking into the adjacent room to follow Lavellan. She picks her way slowly around the elven servants, slain where they were most vulnerable. Solas watches her reach out and close their eyelids, one by one, mouth set in a grim line.

 

“They didn’t have to die,” she says, fury simmering in her voice. It is a quiet thing, but Solas knows that anger well. “Not like this. Defenseless. It’s not right.”

 

“No,” Solas agrees, coming to her side. “Regardless, somebody felt that they did.” The tension in her shoulders does not ease when he takes her wrist in his hand. He cannot feel her pulse beneath the thick leather gloves, but he knows it is there. In a room thick with death, this is a certainty he craves.

 

“Don’t be callous,” she says through gritted teeth, before slowly unclenching her jaw. She does not look at him, but at the faces of the young women below. “Will they even be mourned?”

 

The honest answer is at the tip of his tongue, but she asked for kindness, so he does not give it. Faced with his silence, she takes in a breath and then releases it slowly.

 

“This must end.”

 

It is a pointless assertion, made redundant by their presence at Halamshiral alone, but he does not deny her the righteous fury that leads her to it. “You will have a hand in that,” he says instead, “in the retribution you desire,” and finally, she turns her eyes toward him. Solas does not smile - she would not thank him for it - but in his dry way, he does say, “But not until the Iron Bull can reach the beams in the kitchen.”

 

Several emotions flash through her eyes before resting upon determination. Perhaps a little irritation. The slightest hint of fondness. Lavellan pulls her wrist from his grasp and finally turns to leave the room of death, spurred onward by Bull’s shout of success and the sound of Cole and a dozen apples falling off the table.

 

Solas is quick to follow her lead.

 

☙❧

  


“Have you tried the ham?”

 

Cullen startles from his reverie, his gaze focusing from aimless space to Dorian lounging against the table beside him. He hasn’t tried to pinch Cullen’s bottom, so the commander is tempted to let him stay.

 

“Have I what?”

 

“Oh, don’t make me repeat myself. Why don’t you just try some of this instead.” He lifts a tiny fork, spearing a bit of meat on his plate and waving it in front of Cullen’s face. “I have it on good authority that you probably haven’t eaten all evening.”

 

“Whose authority?”

 

Dorian laughs airily. “The only real authority here. Go on, take a bite before your flirtatious followers think I’m one of them. They have to know I outrank them in every way.”

 

Cullen narrows his eyes for the briefest moment before his stomach protests between them. Dorian’s grin is a smug one when Cullen plucks the fork from his fingers and takes the bite. He pauses mid-chew, and the sound Dorian makes is brimming with delight. “Tastes of despair, doesn’t it?”

 

“Maker, what do they do to their pigs?” Cullen mutters, pressing his fingers to his lips. It’s an objectionable taste, for certain, but not a terrible one. He’s a simple Ferelden man - he doesn’t know what to make of Orlesian delicacies and their confusing flavors.

 

“Here, take mine,” Dorian says, nudging the plate closer to Cullen’s hand. “If you don’t, our esteemed Iron Bull will. He’s already massacred the buffet by the garden. Twice.”

 

“I appreciate the offer, but -”

 

Dorian lifts a silencing hand. “Ah-ah. Any arguments should be posed to our mutual authoritative friend. I really should be off. Companions to berate. Nobles to shock. Venatori to kill. You know how it is.”

 

He’s off before Cullen can protest, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, leaving behind a full plate and an empty fork.

 

Cullen should remain vigilant. It’s his duty - one of the few he can perform for the Inquisition, for the Inquisitor, in this snakepit when she’s off in the belly of the Orlesian beast for the sake of all of Thedas.

 

But… perhaps one more bite won’t hurt.

  
  


☙❧

  
  
  


When Lavellan returns from the dance floor, Josephine and Leliana greet her exuberantly.

 

“We should take you dancing more often,” the ambassador remarks, a pleased smile on her lips. Cullen finds the surprise behind their praise almost offensive. He has watched her fight and he recognizes grace when he sees it. But if she takes offense, she does not show it.

 

“I got the information we need,” she simply says, brushing an errant strand of hair behind her ear. He hears it in her voice. The exhaustion, the annoyance. She is drained and it demands everything of him not to close the distance between them and pull her into his arms. But here, in front of everyone, she is the Inquisitor and he will not expose her to her enemies like that.

 

“I heard there was fighting in the servants' quarters,” he says instead. “Are you alright?”

 

She nods and throws him a look he cannot quite read. But before she can answer, the talk shifts back to more pressing matters. The peace talks, the assassination, Venatori in the gardens. He knows she would not want him to but he cannot find it in himself to care about these things half as much as he cares about the drawn expression on her face. About the tired drooping of her shoulders.

 

“Get your soldiers into position,” she tells him just before vanishing in the crowd again, disappearing in a sea of silk and shimmering masks. He turns to do as she has asked, words of worry stuck in his throat.

 

When he returns to the ballroom, she is nowhere to be seen. A light touch on his arm makes him turn around. He does not know who he expected. Solas, perhaps. But it's Leliana, her slender fingers wrapped around his sleeve and a knowing look on her face.

 

“She has gone outside to catch her breath. Would you mind telling her that everything is in place, if she wished to go to the Royal wing now?”

 

He searches her face for a moment. An unexpected kindness, he thinks. Or perhaps just another part of the game they all seem to play tonight. Maker, he doesn't even know anymore. This night has twisted too much in him. But he nods and makes his way to the shadows she points towards.

 

A broken lock. He runs his thumb over the jagged metal and frowns. It's a sloppy, careless job that says more about her need to get out than about her skill. He pushes open the door and slips through the crack, finding himself on a small balcony, hugged in shadows.

 

She turns around when she hears him. The tension in her shoulders does not leave her when she sees him. “Is it time?” None of the joy, none of the levity she had before, even now in private. This night has gone on for too long and he sees it written in her face. Her kiss in the gardens feels like a distant memory.

 

He shakes his head and steps closer. “They can wait.”

 

She frowns. “Cullen...” Spoken softly but a rebuke nevertheless. She would never allow herself this, even a short moment of rest. Not when there is still so much to do. He wishes Solas were here with his careful words that never allow for objections.

 

But he will have to do for now. He brings her water, not wine. As he hands her the glass wordlessly, gratitude spreads across the weary face. She takes it and empties it in two big gulps. It is just like her to forget to drink all night, while making sure that everyone else is taken care of.

 

He still feels the distance between them, even if she seems to have put his rejection out of her mind. Unspoken words in the air, a true apology that never left his lips. Her quick forgiveness, so freely given without question, somehow makes it worse. Because he knows it means she has found the fault in herself.

 

“Are you alright?” she asks before he can even open his mouth. He supposes he shouldn't surprised by her worry anymore. “I have been so busy all night. And taken Solas with me.”

 

“But you have sent the others to check on me,” he observes.

 

“You've noticed.” She looks up at him, almost bashfully. Trying to see if she has overstepped, he realizes. Swiftly he takes her hand in his and feathers her knuckles with kisses. The sound it draws from her, a tiny “Oh”, is so very different from her disappointment earlier.

 

“It was kind of you,” he says. “But you shouldn't worry so much about me.”

 

“Only a little.” Her smile is still tired but it reaches her eyes this time and he feels the knot in his chest loosen.

 

“Leliana is looking for you,” a familiar voice says behind them. Solas is leaning against the door frame, watching them with a smile on his lips. “I believe they are getting restless.”

 

Lavellan sighs and slips the empty glass back into Cullen's hand. She reaches up to cup the side of his face, just for a brief moment. “It will be alright. And tomorrow we will get as far away from here as possible.”

 

“I should like that.”

 

She steps past him and towards the door. “Will you come with me?” she ask and places one hand on Solas' chest.

 

He nods. “Of course, _ma vhenan_.”

 

“I will get Cole and Bull. Meet me at the door to the Vestibule.” She leaves them, the Inquisitor once more.

 

Cullen feels his jaw clench. She is off again to fling herself in the path of danger and he must stay behind to wait. It is only when he feels Solas' hand in his that he realizes he has started shaking again.

 

“She's tired,” he hears himself say. “And irritable.”

 

“So I have noticed.” If Solas is as worried as he is, he hides it well. Just the lightest hint of a frown on his face but it is gone as fast as it came.

 

“Look out for her.” And then, a little softer. “And come back to me.”

 

Solas' kiss is not the gentle comfort he expected, but firm and reassuring. A promise for more as he swipes his tongue against Cullen's and renders him a little breathless.

 

And then he is gone as well. Leaving Cullen with an empty glass and a fearful heart.

  


☙❧

  


“Hot breath in the garden, four hands wandering where six know the paths, a whisper and a sigh but they miss the missing piece.”

 

Cullen nearly spills his drink as he spins on his heel to silence the spirit behind him. “Cole!” he hisses, not daring to step nearer. Not now, and not here.

 

“Too many touches, all over, but not theirs, not yours, not the hands that help and hold and heal. They put you in a place you cannot escape in your dreams, and the wolf isn’t here to chase them away.”

 

“This really isn’t appropriate,” Cullen says through his teeth, but Cole peers at him guilelessly through his hair.

 

“Appropriate?”

 

“Inappropriate,” Cullen reiterates. His voice comes out like a plea. The evening is already uncomfortable enough without Cole’s insightful babble.

 

“You were lonely and anxious, your insides tied in knots,” Cole says, patiently, as though Cullen needs to be told. “The food didn’t help. She thought it would, but he was not optimistic. They worry for you.”

 

Cullen catches himself in a near smile and sighs. “Of course they do.” Like they aren’t the ones risking life and limb, while he stands around fretting over nothing.

 

“It isn’t nothing,” Cole says, shifting from one foot to the other. “It was all so real in your head, the demons, the desire, and in your head it remained, remains, so the memory - the dreams - still make you shake. Your fears aren’t nothing.”

 

“That -” Cullen starts, and stops. His hands are trembling, as they have been all evening, so he folds his arms over his chest. “That isn’t… that’s not important right now.”

 

“No, there are other fears, too.”

 

“Cole, please -”

 

“They could die at any moment and you could not stop it. Forces too strong, so many and so well hidden, and you too weak and slow and far away. You wouldn’t even know until it was too late.”

 

Cullen winces. Cole blinks. Then he makes a little noise, like he’s realized something, and hurries to continue, “But they won’t, probably. They are powerful and armed with many weapons and so much desire to return to you.”

 

“Ah. Well.” A warm feeling starts to spread toward Cullen’s ears and he fights to keep from rubbing at the back of his neck. “That’s… good.”

 

“They want it to be more than good,” Cole says, and he sounds downright cheery about it. “There are great baths and Antivan oils in the Inquisitor’s washroom. She told Solas. She wants to sleep, but he wants to see how much use they’ll be if he -”

 

“The Inquisitor was just going to look for you,” Cullen cuts him off as quickly as he can before any hovering nobles get any ideas. “She needs your help.” His ears are ringing, so he doesn’t hear Cole’s parting shot before the boy disappears, and he can’t look Leliana in the eye from where she’s peering at him curiously from nearby. He downs the rest of his drink in one go and pretends his entire face doesn’t match his uniform.

 

At least, he notices, his hands have stopped shaking.

 

☙❧

 

She helps the little elven spy to her feet and carefully examines her for any injuries. She is even smaller than herself and it's not hard to see why Briala used her as a spy. Tiny, almost nondescript but with a hint of fierce intelligence in her eyes. Nobody would notice this one eavesdropping from the shadows. Just like nobody would have noticed her absence if the assassin had succeeded.

 

Lavellan forces herself to smile despite the white-hot anger coursing through her veins. Carefully she brushes a strand of hair from the girl's forehead where it is sticking to the already clotting blood.

 

“Solas will take care of this little cut,” she says, keeping her voice soft like she has seen Bull do when he wants to seem less intimidating. “Then go find Commander Cullen in the ballroom. He will keep you safe.”

 

She steps back to let Solas work his healing magic. As he walks past her, she feels his fingertips brush against the small of her back and she almost sighs at the contact. She would not be surprised if he senses her anger like he sometimes seems to sense Cullen's discomfort or anxiety. The touch is brief, fleeting, and he is already busy with tending to the wound by the time she notices it has happened at all.

 

The elven girl's eyes flick from Lavellan to Solas and back, just the slightest frown of concentration on her face. Even now, in her panic and pain, she is gathering information, Lavellan realizes. Making connections, sizing them up. This is someone who had to rely on these skills to stay alive. A spy out of necessity but a spy nonetheless. And perhaps a valuable asset to the Inquisition once this night is over – provided they all make it out in one piece.

 

“You sure that's a good idea, boss?” Bull's voice is low and quiet, just loud enough that she can hear. “If the Empress’ ambassador spots her in the ballroom, she'll know something's up.”

 

“I don't care,” she hisses, anger boiling up again. “Let her know. Let them all know we're coming for them.” She watches as the spy flinches under Solas' careful touch. “Enough with these petty games. I'm done. I will burn this fucking palace to the ground if I have to.”

 

Bull makes an approving sound at the back of his throat, a low rumble that runs straight through her as he puts one of his massive hands on her shoulder. She takes a deep breath. For just a moment she allows exhaustion to wash over her. She's tired, so tired. But when Solas steps back, the cut on the spy's forehead just a pale red line now, she straightens up and steps back into the role she has been playing for months now. Confident, unrelenting, never tiring.

 

The smile feels weak on her lips. “Cole, take her to Cullen.” And then, after a second of consideration: “And no detour this time. Straight to the ballroom.”

 

Cole nods, already halfway to the door, gently tugging on the girl's sleeve to make her come along. He turns around one last time, the familiar dreamy look on his face.

 

“You want to give him something to hold and protect. Shaking hands made steady through purpose. Stronger when he's strong for others.”

 

Lavellan nods. “Exactly. Now go.”

 

When she turns around, she finds Solas smiling at her. He slips his hand into hers and gently runs his thumb over her knuckles. “He will keep her safe. And it will be good for him.”

 

“Better than a quick tryst in the gardens?” Her smile is still thin but he chuckles anyway.

 

“Well, I wouldn't go that far. But it was still a good idea.” He presses his lips against her temple for a moment and she sighs wearily. There is still so much to do. No time for rest.

 

“Let's keep moving. I want to get this over with.”

 

☙❧

 

The Winter Palace has its eyes upon her as she ascends the stairs. She claims every ounce of their attention, and Cullen is no exception where he watches from behind the balustrade. He hangs upon her every word so tightly that it makes him jump to feel a hand press solidly against his spine. Beside Cullen, Solas takes a moment to join him in listening to her reveal the Grand Duchess’ plot, and Cullen cannot say he’s surprised. Nevertheless, he turns swiftly to Solas when she reveals the attempt on her very life.

 

With a sidelong glance, Solas quietly reminds him, “It is not an uncommon occurrence.”

 

“No,” Cullen concedes, turning his attention back to the scene before them. His fingers go tight around the bannister. “But that’s hardly reassuring.”

 

“She is alive,” Solas says and allows his hand to fall. “That is all the reassurance we are allowed.”

 

“Then I’ll take it.”

 

Solas’ laugh is softer even than their quiet words. “Not without the requisite grumbling, I should hope.”

 

Florianne is dragged from the room with all the fuss and fanfare she could hope for, and Lavellan disappears from sight with the Empress, Grand Duke, and Ambassador in tow. It takes all of Cullen’s strength to pry his own fingers from the marble balustrade and tear his eyes away from the place where she last stood.

 

“Perish the thought.”

 

☙❧

 

“Take that off,” Lavellan demands from the circle of Cullen’s arms, and Solas just smiles beatifically at them both from where he leans against the bannister. Cullen’s laugh is quiet, but it builds as he turns her around and she growls, her body poised like she’s ready to slip out of Cullen’s grasp to bat the hat from Solas’ head herself. The curl at the corners of her lips is playful, though, and Cullen squeezes her hand. Lavellan turns her eyes to him then, beseeching. “Tell him to take it off.”

 

“It _is_ hideous,” Cullen says apologetically. Solas swipes over the brim with one long finger.

 

“Truly? But it is so comfortable.”

 

“Solas.”

 

“I think I shall wear it always.”

 

“I will burn it before we leave the palace gates, mark my words.”

 

“Oh?” Solas pushes himself away from the rail and Cullen lets her go on a turn to stumble inelegantly into his arms. She’s far more offended by the closer view of his hat than she is at being passed around to sprawl into Solas’ chest. “And where will you find the fire, ma vhenan?”

 

Lavellan bares her teeth and makes a playful grab for it. Solas allows it, and merely tuts when she sends it over the balcony to the gardens below. “Now, that was a waste of a perfectly good -”

 

“Chamber pot,” Lavellan sniffs. She reaches up to trace the tips of Solas’ ears with a pleased little sigh now that they are totally free. “This is better.”

 

Cullen’s presence is solid behind her and he makes a noise of agreement while he examines the flowers a few of Briala’s more grateful spies had tucked into her hair, freely given by Celene’s handmaidens. His arms catch her between the both of them, and he ducks his head to kiss the curve of her jaw.

 

“It is,” he agrees, closing his eyes to the feel of Solas’ fingertips slipping under the back of his collar.

 

For the first time all evening, he feels like he can finally breathe.

 

Squished in the middle, Lavellan heaves a great sigh and leans back into Cullen with her full, weary weight.

 

“If you two would like to dance, please be my guests,” she says, patting at Solas’ chest until he steps back, releasing the both of them. “But I must find my quarters before I collapse in the middle of the revelries and _really_ cause a scene.”

 

“It would be the most dramatic thing you’ve done all evening,” Solas nods with grave solemnity, and Cullen finds himself snickering as they trail after her back into the ballroom.

 

This time - for the first time since they arrived - they enter together. Just as they will retire for the evening together, and fall into bed together, and rise come morning to flee this dreadful place for the home they’ve built together.

 

Cullen has never felt more content in a room full of Orlesians in all his long life. He does not suspect he will be used to the feeling any time soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> This silly little thing was brought to you by the total, utter impatience we share with Cullen/Lavellan and Solas/Lavellan authors forcing uncomfortable love triangles/rivalry/jealousy. Why can't they all just kiss instead?
> 
> Here, look: they just did.
> 
> Title from “Kissing the Beehive” by Wolf Parade: _We're just drifting all night long here with the flies/And our captain, oh, he is never denied_
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [mywordsflyup](http://damnable-rogue.tumblr.com/)'s and/or [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


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